Tuesday, 19 January 2010

The rain accumulates in the sagging declivity that was once a gutter. And seeps. Sometimes a cascade. Sometimes a torrent. Sometimes drop... by... drop.Life on earth. These are heaven's gifts. What is that sodden smell? The odour of a clogged drain? The redolent memorial of a weeping cloud, marooned on the celestial shelves past its sell-by date?

The earth is a woman, dreamed by the shipwrecked ancient on his lost island, prostrate on the soggy ground, inhaling the moist humus, letting the dark fragrance soak into his soul, which she permits him to do because she is not selective, she will bless the evil with the good, she is life, and will come where she was not invited and whether the timing is right or wrong. And the timing always is what it is. The clock is always ticking. Time moves. But goes nowhere. Advances, falls back, starts again. Tick by tick. Drop by drop. Water will wear down a stone, given long enough.

A heart is not made of stone, but may turn stony. Or soggy. Makes no difference to that weeping cloud, which will go on weeping. Makes no difference to that moist and fragrant earth, which will go on giving up its dark fruits. The night goes on. In the rainforest.

grey-white cloud against top of ridge,silver of drop splashing into channel

The motion of the field here also, grey to white to silver to steel blue, noted and denoted, everything shifting, then shifting again... rocked.

Yesterday's and today's storms came in at about the same early morning hour. Eerie déja vu feeling from earlier El Niño years. Our first Bolinas winter, out by the reef ('68-'69), had a bit of this feel. (Woke up in the dark, heard gurgles, put out hand, felt waters rising beside the bed.) The epic events of '82 (which we experienced in canyon above Santa Barbara) and '98 (here) also came back to me.

the motiondenoted, of the field

Yesterday a.m., a cascade crashing down through ruined roof into dining room, then standing up top amid flapping debris of battered roof tarps, looking out toward the bay, as monsoon rain pelted down and lightning strikes crackled and a mass of steam appeared to be rising off the water as from a vast pot on the boil, I couldn't help thinking once again, this feels... strangely familiar.

Today's blew in like a freight train about 4:30 a.m. and pretty much repeated yesterday's event, if indeed it was not stronger.

We are in micro climate carved out by the notch of the Bridge (we're perpendicular to the opening of the span), everything is sucked in and streams through the notch, lifts and drops ("motion denoted"), so get rainfall totals often doubling those registered a quarter mile to either north or south.

So, enough already.

We're in consternation over how we are going to go on living here. (Alternative options: zero, however.)